maxime has spent most of his life behind a piano, a podium or a very expensive pair of sunglasses. some say he’s brilliant, others say impossible, both are true. fame pays the bills, but music still saves him, and lately, so does the person folding laundry down the hall. the nanny didn’t come for the applause, but something about that presence makes the house feel less like a stage and more like a home. he hasn't said thank you. but he plays softer now. 

noah used to think love came easy if you were funny enough, fast enough, built like a billboard and kind on sundays. that was before the injuries, the divorce, the part of fame where everyone wants something and no one stays. he’s good now, good-ish, still close with his kids, still learning how to rest. the nanny wasn’t part of the plan, just part of the house at first. but somehow, this person makes it feel less empty. he jokes more lately. he cooks. he’s still scared to want something for real, but maybe not forever. 

paulo never raised his voice in front of his children, he doesn’t see the point. he’s a quiet kind of warm, raised in san sequoia, hardened abroad, rebuilt in the garden between work calls. his foundation does well, his wine always pairs, and his home runs on a quiet rhythm that worked fine until the nanny arrived. this person isn’t loud, just alive in a way he’d forgotten was possible. now he finds himself setting the table for two. he tells himself it’s polite. he knows better.